


lead me down the styx

by Ethereally



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Character Study, Claude von Riegan Actually Gets the Emotional Catharsis that He Deserved: The Musical, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Fix-It, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Slow Burn, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23765878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethereally/pseuds/Ethereally
Summary: Last night tastes like the faintest shadow of a dream, but his body remembers this: how strong Dimitri had been pushed up against him, and how he'd smelled like lavender and parchment when their lips met.A late-night encounter at the Garreg Mach library changes the course of history, forever.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 53
Kudos: 153





	1. when you're counting minutes, set a timer

Here's what letting go feels like: Dimitri, shirt half-unbuttoned, pressing down against Claude on the library desk. Claude wraps his arms around Dimitri's back, crushing their lips together; their tongues curl into each other's in tandem, and Claude slings a leg around Dimitri's waist. He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the way Dimitri's breath feels on his cheek, his face, the way Dimitri pulls away to pepper kisses down Claude's neck, gentle. _Too gentle._ Claude's hands grab hold of fistfuls of Dimitri's hair. The slightest gasp falls from his lips and it sounds like _yearning_ , a desire that he never knew burned inside him, a hunger that he's never put the words to before.

Claude's tasted temptation for the first time, and he can't help but drink, drink.

This is a mistake. This is a terrible lapse of judgment and Claude von Riegan knows this like the sky is blue, knows that he'll regret it when he wakes up in his room later and he's not trapped in the haze of four-in-the-morning. Yet in the dimness of the flickering lamps this is the only thing he's ever wanted. Claude longs for Dimitri the way he's only ever craved intangible concepts like ambition and acceptance, and a world where he and someone like Dimitri can be shoved against each other, fingers laced into one another's, like this. Dimitri grabs one of Claude's hands, pinning it down against the table, and pleasure courses through Claude as Dimitri's teeth sink into Claude's neck. Now they're talking. Claude's no stranger to making himself small and vulnerable when he's forced to, but he never thought he'd enjoy having powerlessness shoved on him. His free hand reaches underneath Dimitri's shirt, digging into his flesh, and for the first time in his life, Claude allows himself to enjoy feeling fragile.

He's breathless, panting, reveling in the scent of old books and Dimitri's lavender soap and a tryst that doesn't feel real. Another indulgent sound escapes his breath when Dimitri's teeth begin to undo the hooks in the front of Claude's uniform, exposing a loose, yellow undershirt; Claude's still relishing the strength of Dimitri's grip on his wrist and the force with which Dimitri peels off his overcoat. Claude's thankful it's a summer night, warm enough that he won't be freezing even when he's exposed to the elements like this, though he suspects that the surge of their combined body heat would be enough to sustain him through the coldest of elements. If this is what lust feels like, Claude could be a repeated sinner.

“Claude,” Dimitri leans up to whisper, “Claude.” His teeth nip at Claude's earlobe, and the same, unfamiliar thrill rushes through him like a drug, a concoction of his own making that could leave him undone. “Claude,” Dimitri speaks again, and there's a tenderness in his voice that only this liminal silence could conjure, a gentle song formed around the shape of his name that Claude never thought would fall from anyone's lips, much less the prince of a rival nation. Dimitri's eyes meet Claude's and he sees himself reflected inside them, half-undressed and wanting and weak under Dimitri's touch. Clumsily, Dimitri lifts a calloused finger to tilt Claude's chin upwards, his other hand letting go of Claude's to skim underneath his undershirt. His fingers rub against Claude's stomach, and Claude can't help but notice how Dimitri's touch lingers for a moment far too long, how he's slowly snaking up towards Claude's chest--

_Stop._

Panic rushes through Claude like an electric charge, and he sits up with a jolt. “I-- I think we're done here,” he stutters, scrambling to grab hold of his coat. _Stupid, stupid. How could you be such a fool?_

Dimitri immediately jerks backwards, lips parted in shock. “I... I apologize. Did I push you too far? I'm sorry, Claude, I must have misjudged the situation.”

Claude lets slip a practiced laugh. “There's no harm done. Just two heirs, having a good time in the library when there's no one else to watch. Sounds like something out of one of Ashe's raunchy novels.” He throws his coat on, trying to block out his inner voice chanting about how he'd messed up.

Claude's only got one chance to recover from this mess. He'd better think on his feet.

And on his feet he gets, nimbly hoisting himself off the table so he's next to Dimitri. Even when they're both standing he's fully aware of how much taller and stronger Dimitri is compared to him-- then again, this would have been a losing battle from the start. Dimitri's wide eyes and raised hands speak nothing of what's etched in the annals of history: lions hunt deer for prey. The Alliance is in no position to give power up to the Kingdom and Claude's just glad that he acted quickly enough to see past the fog of longing.

Dimitri clears his throat.

“Claude, did I--”

Claude shrugs, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of his heartbeat. “Don't sweat it. I've got to go back and mix some poisons before class tomorrow.” _What I lack in physical strength, I have in cunning. You'll keep this to yourself._ He smiles, threateningly. “Shall I walk you to your room?”

_I know where to find you in your sleep, Dimitri._

Dimitri stumbles backwards, blinking back at Claude, chest rising and falling as he heaves. “I'm... I'm so sorry, Claude. I must have misread the situation.”

“Sorry? You didn't do anything wrong.” Claude says, sliding up towards Dimitri and linking his arm with his. Dimitri flinches, but doesn't protest, which is exactly what Claude wants-- the situation is his to manipulate, just the way it should be. It doesn't feel good twisting Dimitri around like this, never has and never will, but that's the game of politics. Protecting himself, and therefore his people, is more important than morality.

“Come on now. Shall we put His Princeliness to bed?”

And they'll leave this matter to rest.

*

Claude stumbles out of bed the next morning ten minutes before class, hair messy and eyes crusted with what almost feels like tears. Last night tastes like the faintest shadow of a dream, but his body remembers this: how strong Dimitri had been pushed up against him, and how he'd smelled like lavender and parchment when their lips met. Instinctively, Claude raises a hand to his neck, and he winces when he realizes he can still feel the hickeys Dimitri left. “Shit,” he curses underneath his breath, diving through the pile of assorted knick-knacks on his desk for a concealer he'd bought but never used. If only he'd paid more attention to Hilda when she'd droned on about fashion and makeup. “Teach is going to flay me alive.”

Not that it matters too much, after all. He's got the Professor wrapped around his finger. Claude's always prided himself on his ability to see potential, and he's buttered Professor Byleth up from day one. A few questions here, a bold declaration of trust there, and he's pretty certain that the Professor will let him get away with anything-- then again, this isn't a privilege that he'd like to abuse lest he loses it. Claude grimaces, pulling the stick of concealer out from underneath a used handkerchief and hastily dabbing it across his neck. He can't afford to be discovered, not when Hilda will bombard him with questions if she catches even a whiff of his mistakes last night.

The two-minutes-before-class warning bell chimes through Garreg Mach like a dirge. Claude dashes out of his room at lightspeed. He'll settle into the Golden Deer classroom with a couple of minutes to spare, enough to come up with some new prank or wisecracks to keep his classmates entertained. “Where were you at breakfast?” Hilda asks as he slides in next to her, looking up towards Claude with a frown.

Claude's wink back to her is easy. “That would be telling,” he says, pushing back the lurching sensation in his chest. He and Hilda had become easy friends upon his arrival at Garreg Mach, and he'd instinctively liked her upon first contact-- but he'd done enough studying up about House Goneril and Almyra to truly expose himself to their precious Crest-bearer. He can't be certain she won't turn on him if she learns his lineage: or, at the very least, gaze upon him with a mixture of pity and contempt.

Hilda rolls her eyes, heaving a dramatic sigh.

“You can just say you just rolled out of bed, you know! When will you stop playing the mysterious card?”

“Why would I? It's part of my irresistible charm.” Hilda gives him a playful sideways nudge, and Goddess, Claude wishes so badly that he could trust her. The Professor trudges into the classroom, and Claude sits up straight, pulling a fistful of notes out of his bag and slamming them on the desk. It's just another day as House Leader of the Golden Deer. Dimitri won't speak of last night to anyone, and neither will Claude.

It makes no political sense for either of them to do so. And if there's one thing Claude's learned during his time at Garreg Mach, it's that everything is politically motivated: from where you sit in class, to what activities you're chosen to partake in on the weekends. It's no coincidence that Hilda immediately sidled up to Claude on day one and introduced herself as his friend, and also no coincidence that any student can switch classes except for the leaders of each House. He and Dimitri are destined to be apart by design. To share meals but not classes, nor stolen kisses under the canopies of Garreg Mach's gardens, fingers laced into each other's like in the visions of Claude's fantasies.

Someday, Claude will create a world where he can break down these barriers, so Fódlan will know no houses, no nations, and no borders to separate them. But he's got to wait for the right time and the right place to bend their stupid rules-- and a schoolboy crush is most certainly not cause for action.

You can't always have your cake and eat it. Claude's learned that the hard way.

He flashes Dimitri a flippant smile when their shoulders brush against each other's during lunch. Dimitri wears aftershock a lot less elegantly than Claude does, with dark circles and tousled hair. There's a haunted look to his gaze when their eyes meet for a second. Dimitri reaches out to grab Claude's hand, fingers brushing against his briefly in a pale imitation of last night's events. Claude's blood turns to acid.

“Well, if it isn't His Princeliness,” Claude jeers, snapping his hand close to his chest. “What's for lunch today?”

“Claude,” Dimitri whispers, “Would you please--”

He's spent most of class today running through millions of scenarios where this happens, but none of them had covered the sheer desperation in Dimitri's pleas. Something twists inside Claude like a knife, but what's a little internal bleeding?

(It hurts enough to leave him bruised.)

Claude gestures around the dining hall.

“All eyes are on us now, aren't they? Let's save the dramatics for indoors.”

Only there'll be no more indoors, no next times; hell if Claude's going to allow himself to be alone with Dimitri again any time soon given how he'd let himself slip. He'll have to wear his classmates like armor around him, knowing how temptation can make him weak. Lorenz's strange habit of watching Claude might come into handy for this: better the anxious and jumpy sensation of constantly being perceived than the crushing despair of a mistake Claude will come to regret.

Dimitri frowns, taking a step backwards. His plate of Gautier Cheese Gratin perches precariously on a wooden tray far too fragile for him.

“I suppose,” he mutters, but Claude can feel the next words forming in Dimitri's mouth, some platitude such as “please stay” or “don't go”. Claude turns around, giving Dimitri a casual wave before he has the chance to speak. He goes to take his place between Ignatz and Raphael in the lunch line.

*

The rest of the school year storms by in a flurry. The trees trade lush greens for faded reds before dead brown leaves fall to the floor. Seasons don't change with such fervor in Almyra, and Claude spends far more time than he should hopping into leaf piles and watching them go _swoosh_. Lysithea will have his head if he ruins cleanup duty for the two of them once again, but he laughs so hard it blocks out the shrill sounds of her shrieking at him to grow up. And then comes the slow onset of winter in Fódlan. The chilly weather is far colder than Claude is used to, and he can't help but watch with awe as his breath makes smoke rings in the air. This is magic in motion, more mystical and captivating than his failed attempts to cast Cutting Gale.

Almyra doesn't celebrate winter the way Fódlan does: Claude's far more used to large feasts at the end of a one-month fasting period, determined by the tides of the moon. The idea of a yearly winter festival set on exactly the same calendar day is completely foreign to him, but Claude can't say he dislikes it. It's just another excuse to eat too much and pass out. Two of his favorite activities of all time! He's spent a good amount of time training in the Alliance to dance Fódlan-style, enough that he can pass as someone who's grown up rooted in Leicester's culture.

Nevertheless, he feels an instant wash of relief when the Professor picks Sylvain as the Golden Deer representative for the White Heron Cup. They say “fake it till you make it”, but Claude can't help but fear that the cracks in his armor might slip and break his ruse. Not having to dance in front of a large audience means that Claude has one less thing to worry about. Besides, now that the selection process for each house is over and done with, the school is offering dance lessons available for anyone who needs a little refresher. Claude hesitates for only a split second before signing his name on the sheet with a flourish.

Better to make a fool out of himself during practice than to completely forget how to dance during the ball.

Professor Manuela claps along to the rhythm of the piano, chanting “one-two-three” “one-two-three” as students dance around her. Claude sways along to the sound of the song, leading Marianne in a slow waltz. Neither of them can quite seem to keep to the beat, but they're having fun; at least, Claude's pretty certain that Marianne is. She laughs when he raises a hand to twirl her, and shyly asks if she can, when they switch songs, lead him next. Marianne has come a long way since their earliest encounter where she couldn't look him in the eye, and Claude wonders if Hilda's influence has something to do with that. Hilda's a great mood-maker for the Golden Deer, always ready with warm encouragement and words of praise, and she's spent a lot of time hovering around Marianne as of late. He makes a mental note to ask Hilda about it later.

The music begins to fade out, tapering into a faster tune, and a couple of violinists join in, playing a quick, intense melody that sends Claude's heart racing. Marianne smiles up at him, mouthing the word “Ready?”, and Claude nods in response, giving her a confident grin. They're interrupted by the sound of Professor Manuela's voice ringing through the Entrance Hall.

“Let's change things up a little, shall we? Pick ourselves some new partners. Also,” she says, clearing her throat, “Don't let gender hold you back this time. This is the eleventh century, and we can all be mature about a little _dancing_.”

A collective sigh of relief ripples around the temporary ballroom, and Claude can't help but feel its effects. He's willing to play nice with the illusion of masculinity and the expectations that follow, but these neat little boxes are more barriers that he'd like to see broken. A warm, radiant smile of the likes Claude's never seen before spreads across Marianne's face, and she can barely mouth a “Thank you!” to Claude before she's whisked away by Hilda.

Claude smirks back in response, stage-whispering, “Go get her,” to Marianne and Hilda at the same time. The music continues to ramp up in pace, the orchestral sounds growing more frantic by the second, and it's only a matter of minutes before everyone falls in line with a partner. He whirls around to evaluate his pickings, only to be met with a pair of ice-blue eyes.

Prince Dimitri stands in front of him, hair combed and back straight, the picture-perfect image of Faerghus royalty. Claude feels his heart stop in his chest. Dimitri blinks back at him, and his voice is shaking as he speaks.

“Ah, Claude. How unexpected that I would see you here,” he says, tugging on the hem of his shirt. “We don't have to dance if you would prefer not to. I don't want you to feel like you are pressured into it--”

Claude laughs, uneasy. “What could you be talking about, Your Princeliness?” Surely Dimitri isn't trying to manipulate him into agreeing, is he? Then again, he wouldn't necessarily have to try very hard-- Dimitri's voice is like the Fire explosion that marks the start of a running race, and Claude's heart is ready to go, go.

It's been months since they first met, and Claude still hasn't been able to figure out what it is about Dimitri that's so effortlessly disarming. The seeming lack of guile behind his words should ring warning bells, not wind chimes. Dimitri takes a hesitant step backwards, and a familiar sense of guilt twists in Claude's gut. Rationally, he knows that Dimitri doesn't deserve any of the hot and cold behavior that Claude's thrown at him, even if he's made an effort to be friendly and cordial in public. The solution can't be to keep brushing him off. It isn't fair to either of them, and certainly not conducive to nation-building.

Claude's eyes wander around the room. A few students have stopped in their tracks, and Dorothea is whispering into Ingrid's ear; Edelgard's gaze meets Claude's from across the room, and she gives him a knowing smirk. Oh, she's enjoying this-- it must be nice to see one of her political rivals get taken down a peg. The problem with being a future leader with a fancy gold cape is that anything Claude does, or doesn't do is always going to draw an audience, and laughing Dimitri off will inevitably cause a string of unnecessary gossip that Claude doesn't have time to tie up.

If the Prince of Faerghus wants him cornered, well, he's succeeded. Claude beams back at Dimitri, pulling him in by the waist.

“It would be my pleasure.”

In another life, this would be more than ideal. Dimitri pressed up close towards Claude, arms outstretched and fingers locked together, the picture-perfect image of Faerghus-Leicester unity. Perhaps if they'd been born as margraves or dukes, or as minor nobility with little to nothing to lose, they might have been able to revel in this moment, but Claude's unique birthright means he has a mission that's far, far bigger than his own desires. He can't think too much about how Dimitri tugs him in closer, and how it feels like they're stepping in tune to each other as opposed to the beat of the music. Claude can feel his heartbeat ringing through his head, and he's not sure if it's out of attraction or panic.

Then again, for Claude, the two emotions have always been intertwined.

The violinists' melody picks up speed, and Dimitri's footwork does too, leading Claude in a fancy foxtrot that he'd almost forgotten the steps to. Claude can feel himself wanting to melt in Dimitri's arms, might just allow himself to be carried away by how safe and warm it feels to be dancing like this with him. A shudder rushes through his body. Dimitri's not one to do anything by halves, and Claude's never felt more vulnerable than he does now, his body, his being, pliant to Dimitri's lead. He can feel Dimitri's gaze boring into him as they sway to the sound of the music, and Claude blinks, refocusing his vision on the dance floor.

_It's just one dance. Don't overthink it._

The music ramps up, and Dimitri yanks Claude ahead in a sudden motion. A gasp falls from Claude's lips as Dimitri kicks a foot forward, a few moments too early for the melody-- Claude does the same thing, doing his best to follow suit as Dimitri continues to dance. Dimitri's head jerks to the left, then to the right, all sense of rhythm and pace he'd shown earlier completely unraveling in a sudden flurry of motions. His grip on Claude tightens, and a bolt of adrenaline pulses through Claude's veins, thrill and fear simultaneously taking over as Dimitri barrels ahead with little regard for their fellow students on the dance floor. Breathless, Claude speaks.

“Hey, Your Princeliness. You... You doing all right?”

“I'm _just fine_ ,” Dimitri snarls, and there's a gruffness to his voice that Claude's never heard before. And much as there's a certain glee to being thrown around by Dimitri like this, rationality is screaming at him, telling Claude that there's something here that isn't right. He allows himself to look into Dimitri's eyes once again, and where he'd once found calmness now brews a storm-- brows knotted, pupils flickering, torrential as the seas at high tide.

Something's changed in Prince Dimitri, and Claude isn't quite sure what could have been the impetus.

He barely has time to register the realization when Dimitri lunges forward. A low, pathetic yelp falls from Claude's throat as he finds himself dipping to the floor, back arched like a bowstring against the curve of Dimitri's arm. Dimitri's forehead is pushed dangerously close to his, so much that Claude can feel his breath against his skin, and their lips hover just inches from each other's. The basal, instinctual part of Claude wants to close the space between them, sealing it with a kiss. Every other voice in Claude's head shrieks that this is wrong. Wrong place, wrong time, worst possible state of mind. This is the Dimitri that Claude knows, but here's a side of him that he's never seen. Claude wants nothing more, in this moment, than to understand it. Understand _him_.

The music comes to a grinding halt. Dimitri pulls Claude up to full height so quickly it's disorienting, and Claude can almost see stars at the whiplash. Dimitri dusts himself off all-too-politely, giving Claude a stiff little bow.

“T- thank you so much for that dance,” he says, though his formal manner of speech doesn't hide the trembling in his voice. “It was absolutely my pleasure.”

“Your Princeliness--” Claude begins, reaching out to grab Dimitri's shoulder. He isn't quite sure what purpose it will serve, if he's being completely honest with himself; what is he going to ask of his fellow ruler, his almost-friend? Dimitri isn't going to answer. He turns around, giving Claude a sad little smile before disappearing into the crowd of students. And there Claude is, alone, the eyes of Garreg Mach's entire student body piercing into him like the sharp edge of a lance. He swallows the lump in his throat, trying to quell the myriad of conflicting feelings bubbling in his gut.

*

Prince Dimitri does an expert job of dodging Claude at the Garreg Mach Ball, and then for weeks after that. Not that Claude blames him-- it isn't as though he's been the most forthcoming with Dimitri, and he shouldn't expect the same when all he's done for the last few months is push him away. Still, he won't pretend it doesn't hurt when Dimitri won't even smile at him when they pass each other in the hallways, won't even acknowledge him when he meets his gaze. Felix and Dedue hover around Dimitri like a hawk, shooting Claude sharp looks that Claude can only read as accusatory.

He wouldn't be surprised if Dimitri hasn't told his friends anything about Claude, but for Dimitri's sake, he almost wishes he _had_.

Claude's made some poorly-weighted political decisions, and this is the price to bear. Better to learn from his mistakes when he's a giddy teenager in child soldier school compared to when he's expected to lead armies into war. Luckily, he has more things to worry about than Dimitri's approval; rumors of an Empire uprising travel to his ears from Alliance spies, and Claude's been exchanging coded letters with his grandfather in preparation for battle.

He wishes he could be shocked when the Professor rips the Flame Emperor's mask off when they're tasked with protecting the Holy Tomb, only to reveal Edelgard's delicate visage. It's a firm reminder that the Empire and Kingdom are his rivals, not his friends, much as he dreams of a fantasy world where he and Edelgard can spend hours debating politics and literature over hot, steaming tea. Talk about that dream going up in smoke. The Golden Deer house barely has time to nab Edelgard before she's whisked away by people in strange outfits and stranger masks, with auras that Claude can't quite describe as being fully human, and he's left to ponder the events that transpired in her wake.

The thought of going back to class like nothing has happened makes Claude want to hurl. All they once knew stands on uneven ground: the Black Eagles are shaken by the betrayal of their beloved House Leader, and the bags under Professor Manuela's eyes are deeper and her mascara clumps more with each passing day. Through the corner of his eye Claude sees Bernadetta pleading Professor Byleth to let her into their class instead, and he's completely unsurprised when she shuffles into the Golden Deer classroom a few days later.

Not that it matters much, anyway, when their lessons have turned into makeshift war meetings-- everything that they've learned through skirmishes and theories could spur into reality. The tension in the classroom during discussions and debates is strung so tightly now that Claude fears that one of his classmates might break. It isn't uncommon for Marianne or Ignatz or even _Caspar_ to burst into tears in the middle of the day, and they have to waste hours of planning trying to talk them down. If Claude was constantly on high alert before, it's nothing compared to this. His blood feels like it's made from coffee and adrenaline.

Nothing fazes him any more at this point, not even when he hears a battle cry ring through the hallways of Garreg Mach, desperate and pleading for warriors to fight. Edelgard has raised an army against the monastery, just as Claude had suspected. The Golden Deer pour out into the entrance hall to be greeted by Alois, hollering at them to grab their weapons, protect the vulnerable, and to flee if they must. “There is no shame in fleeing to safety,” he booms. But the steely look of determination behind Marianne's's eyes is in complete contrast with the tears she'd shed just days ago, and he hears the resolution in Ignatz's voice as he declares that he too will join the battle. The Golden Deer are marching to their doom, together.

The Church has provided Claude more questions than answers. He's not putting his life on the line for Lady Rhea or the Church or a Goddess he only half-believes in, but the Golden Deer are his allies and he'll drag them through this battle alive, kicking and screaming. What's a skirmish against his former classmate compared to years of attempts on his life? Claude storms out into the battlefield, his trusted battalion following from a short distance behind him. He aims his bow at the sky, closing his left eye for aim as he fires a flurry of arrows at a swarm of Pegasus Knights in Empire colors.

 _Protect your own,_ his mother's voice rings out at the back of his mind, her tone like warm milk and honey as she speaks in practiced Almyran. _These are your people now._

“I have to trust them,” he murmurs underneath his breath, though he's confident that no-one would hear him in the hullabaloo of battle. “I have to.”

He'd thought Remire Village was a bloodbath, but it's nothing compared to this. Screams of agony fill the air as steel clashes against steel, and Claude grits his teeth, trying to block out the sound of his enemies' dying pleas. He makes the mistake of looking one of his opponents in the eye as she tumbles from her wyvern, body crashing to the ground with a loud thud, and he doesn't even have the time to register the feeling of bile jumping to the back of his throat before his army takes aim at another fleet.

Claude's never been a religious man, but he says a prayer for her to his own God-- hopefully one more merciful than the one that protects Fódlan, if she would let her own continent come to bloodshed like this.

There's no time to lose. The Garreg Mach army is pushing forward against the Empire, but they haven't completely driven Edelgard out yet-- and when the Professor hollers out for help Claude finds himself bellowing, “I'm with you, Teach!” in response. With that, he and the rest of his battalion storm across the battlefield, bows to the ready, shooting at the legions of wyverns and pegasi who've chanced them as an easy target. Claude narrowly dodges a Dark Flier's Bolganone spell, watching as it singes the edge of his cape: on the plus side, he probably won't have a graduation ceremony to get all fancy for.

Pity. His mother wouldn't have been able to attend, but it'd have been nice for his grandfather to see him walk across that stage. Maybe someone in his family would have cried tears of joy for him, for once.

There's no point dwelling in the what ifs or maybes, though. One would think that his tryst with Dimitri had taught him that. Claude pushes the thought from his mind and picks up his pace, darting closer to where the Professor is engaged in combat against a horde of cavaliers. They're flanked by battalions led by Leonie and Ingrid, the latter's pegasus army making quick work of the mages that have started to pour on in. “We're all good!” Leonie yells, and much as Claude wants to protest the best thing he can do is to believe her. Claude flashes her a thumbs-up in response.

A dark spot flickers in the corner of his eye. Claude whips around, dropping the arrow in his hand and grabbing the Killer Axe strapped to his belt. “Who's there?” he spits, more afraid than he'd like to admit to sounding, only to be met with a familiar tall, blonde figure. An easy grin spreads across his lips-- he's never been this relieved to see Dimitri before.

“Well, if it isn't his Princeliness. So, tell me, what can I do for--”

Dimitri whips around to face him, and Claude finds himself stumbling back in shock.

Dimitri's normally pristine uniform is singed, charred and matted with blood, just like everyone else's on the battlefield. But it's the look he's wearing that's unnerving-- this isn't the lustful, hungry expression he wore when they'd kissed in the library, or the torrential storm that had danced in his eyes when they'd danced. Dimitri's eyes are wide, bloodshot, like he hasn't slept in weeks. He stabs his lance into his opponent's chest without casting him a second glance, and a grin spreads across Dimitri's soft features as the man falls to the dirt. Panic surges through Claude as Dimitri takes a step closer towards him, but he's able to ask the question that's been on his mind for weeks:

“Your Pri-- Dimitri... What can I do to help?”

Dimitri plunges his javelin into the ground in what can't be anything but a show of strength. There's an anger, something that almost sounds like _vengeance_ behind Dimitri's words as he turns to address Claude, every inch of his being shaking with bloodlust and fury.

“ _Get... Out... Of... My... Way!_ ”

Dimitri's scream is so loud it's piercing. He yanks the javelin from the dirt, flinging it in Claude's direction in a single, precise motion. Before Claude has the chance to react, he feels a pair of strong, callused hands pushing him to the ground, and he stumbles, crashing into the dirt followed by a man with shocking purple hair. Lorenz's brow is knotted and his eyes are wide, and Claude can see the rising and falling of his chest. He scrambles to his feet before extending a hand to help Claude.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. “The Alliance can't afford to lose you, you know.”

Normally, Claude would make some snide remark, some jibe about how Lorenz had once told him that Claude should never have shown his face around here. He's one part too floored with gratitude, another part too busy snapping his head up, wondering just what in the world Dimitri's lance had been meant for.

He gets his answer a split second later. An Empire soldier stumbles back from right behind where Claude was, and Dimitri pulls the sharp end of his javelin out of his pulsing heart.

“He saved me,” Claude murmurs. His lips are parted with shock as he speaks the words again, “He saved me.”

Lorenz clicks his tongue in response. “He better have,” he says, grabbing Claude's bow from the ground and handing it to him. “There's no time to waste here. Prince Dimitri is...” Lorenz casts the subject of their conversation a withering gaze, “Clearly capable of handling this on his own, and Hubert's leading an army from the Eastern gate. Lysithea and Sylvain are doing their best, but they need backup. You were requested. Are you coming, or are you not?”

Claude's gaze is still fixed on Dimitri. He's a one-man army in himself, breaking bones and snapping heads with dangerous force, every movement of his filled with the same sense of purpose, retribution. And much as it looks like Dimitri doesn't need any assistance Claude can't help but feel like there's a missing piece here, something he can't quite hope to understand.

But they are at war now. War is relentless, and war is harsh-- and war leaves no time for childish flights of fancy. He takes Lorenz's still-outstretched hand.

“Thank you, Lorenz. Let's go.”

Here's what letting go feels like: Claude scrambling onto Lorenz's horse, gripping onto his comrade for dear life as the stallion picks up pace. The echoes of Dimitri's war cries getting softer and softer behind him, drowned out by the noises of firing arrows and steel piercing flesh. The taut pull on Claude's bowstring when he takes aim at Edelgard, steeling himself to take the life of someone he'd have wished to call a friend-- and the subsequent inhuman, growling sound that follows. A grotesque, white dragon, bigger than imagination and life itself, with wings so big they cast a shadow across the entire battlefield from the sky, barreling into the monastery, the town, each and every building it lunges into turning into piles of brick and rubble.

A loud, familiar scream. Claude whirls around in time to see the Professor, rushing to the dragon's aid, and the Sword of the Creator glowing bright. All thoughts of merely using the Professor for his cause are shoved to the wayside.

“ _Teach!_ ”

There is an explosion of smoke and fire and light, and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i need to thank three people in particular for this. first of all, aria, for being the first person to have planted this idea in my mind way back in... september, when i first finished the verdant wind route. i didn't have the confidence to give this idea life back then, and tbh i'm not entirely sure that i've done it justice now, but i think i'm a stronger writer now than i was then and that should count for something. the second person i need to thank is bushra, who allowed me to bounce some of my ideas off them, and who was a big part of why i included allusions to ramadan/islam! i'm not muslim myself, but i grew up in a muslim-majority country. and finally, dima, who was my dimitri consultant and who also helped me with my chapter before i threw it up! i wanted some of this to come as a surprise to you but... i needed so much help that you basically know every interaction between dimitri and claude, haha. it gets worse before it gets better. (trust me, it will get better.)
> 
> also, in case i wasn't obvious from the tags, claude is he/him nonbinary!
> 
> this is the first time i've written a chaptered fic by myself since i was thirteen, so please be kind. i've done two collabs but they were very much my partners dragging me to the finish line so... i hope i manage to push through! please come and yell at me to finish this on twitter (offer valid for now and may be retracted later) and feel free to retweet this fic if you enjoyed the first chapter.


	2. when your heart is beating, pinch a finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I (23NB) fell in love with the prince of a rival nation (23M) five years ago, made out with him once and then pushed him away. Now he’s raised an army to come and fight me and my other ex-classmate (23F) on Gronder Field, won’t let me talk sense into him, and is screaming something about "kill[ing] every last one of [us]." I can't help but feel like I might have... inadvertently contributed to this. AITA?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for unreality and hallucinations: please be careful!

News of Prince Dimitri's death arrives in whispered shadows, clandestine. Claude reads and rereads the letters sent from Daphnel spies in messy handwriting, parsing the coded messages; he squints at the smudged ink of each note, panic gripping at his insides as he scrutinizes every word. There's no way that these words can be misconstrued. _He's dead, he's dead, Prince Dimitri is dead_ , Claude's inner monologue chants, playing and replaying the words like a threnody, and he clenches the parchment in his fist. Claude's insides feel like they've been gouged out.

No emotion he's ever felt compares to the slow lull of grief, the sensation of being slowly poisoned by his own misery. When the lights are out and the curtain is drawn on the ruse of Claude's being a competent leader, a charming fiend, he lies in bed thinking of the people he's lost. The Professor, his grandfather, and now Prince Dimitri are gone, though he could hardly call him _his_. No one teaches lessons in the correct procedure of mourning a person you barely knew. So Claude stares up at the ceiling, replaying the final battle of Garreg Mach in his mind over and over again, wondering if it might be foolish for him to remove his earrings and don plainer clothes in accordance to the rules of his own God-- would He look down upon Claude for compounding his grief for Dimitri with that of his kin?

A single candle flickers in his window, replaced evening after evening as it burns through the night. He lights it when the demands of being the new leader of the Alliance have settled for the day and he's allowed to be alone, when there's no more _Claude, Claude, what do we do now, Claude_ ringing in his ears. His faith in Fódlan's Goddess wavers more with each passing day, but he can't help but cling to the distant dream that his Professor will be back. Seteth had once mentioned, off-hand, that the followers of the Church of Seiros believed that lighting a candle might help illuminate a lost traveler's way home. Claude watches the flames dance in the night as he attempts to sleep. It's a placebo for mourning, but he'll take all the faith that he can get.

If their own Goddess won't protect them, perhaps Claude's God will. He'd once spurned the idea of calling to a higher being for help. Now he speaks Byleth's name in his prayers, five times a day during morning, afternoon and night, whispered in the same breath as protection for his own country and his newfound home. His Professor is strong, and tough, and can take care of themselves should things go awry, but it doesn't hurt to have the eyes of divine beings on their back, someone who can look out for them when Claude isn't able to himself. 

Hopelessness, death and religion are so inherently intertwined with one another in ways that Claude can't reconcile. And when a spy leans in close one chilly morning, whispering “rumors say it wasn't Prince Dimitri's body” into Claude's ear, he has to do his best to keep his voice level as he speaks his thanks.

He brings two candles to his bedroom that night.

“It would mean something to Dimitri,” Claude whispers as he lights his makeshift altar, the fire casting shadows on his face as he stares into the night sky. The people of the Kingdom of Faerghus are holy men, and even though he's never had a conversation with Dimitri about faith this feels like the least he can do. It's irrational to hedge his bets on unsubstantiated rumors, but grieving, much like politics, is a waiting game. Claude can be a patient person when need be, but he's tired of constantly being told to keep holding on.

Besides, he's got to find something to be hopeful about when the whole continent's gone to war. So at night he strikes a match, then another, then another.

Yet the twin thralls of war and time burn on, dogged and determined. The next five years may as well go up in smoke. Claude and his Professor are reunited at Garreg Mach on the day of the Golden Deer's promised reunion, bathed in the soft sunlight of dawn's edge. It feels almost too serendipitous to be true, but in his arms the Professor is warm and present and real, still as calm and measured as they were on the day that they had parted. Claude can't help but wonder if they've aged at all, and if faith is really that baseless.

On the other hand, his fellow classmates have transformed. They've bloomed into brighter and sharper versions of the friends who he'd fought with as comrades on Garreg Mach's battlefield, and Claude's heart swells with pride at the sight of them all together. But when Leonie kicks their old classroom's door open and declares, “The Golden Deer are back and ready to rumble!” Claude can't help but laugh-- there's a part of them that's still stupid kids, young, idealistic and ready to set the world ablaze. They get to work transforming the monastery from bottom to top, clearing rubble and pulling weeds, morphing the battered hallways and dusty rooms into a place they can call home. Garreg Mach hardly carries the same idyllic atmosphere now as it once did in their schooldays, but at least Lysithea can walk from one end of it to the other without coughing up a storm. That should count for something.

Claude's fully aware of the dangers of clinging to nostalgia, especially when his largest opponent at war is Edelgard herself. Yet when the Alliance army storms onto Gronder Field a few months later, Claude can't help but feel a pang of wistfulness tug in his chest. He stares into the clouded horizon, watching the twin banners of the Adrestian Empire and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus wave in the wind, before his attention inevitably flickers towards his former classmates. Edelgard's amethyst eyes, steeled with cold determination, stand in sharp contrast with the storm that dances in Dimitri's gaze. Dimitri, whose safe return he'd never stopped lighting candles for, even after all these years, though there's nothing peaceful about this reunion under a murky sky.

The Alliance has no quarrel with the Kingdom, and Claude has a sneaking suspicion that his desires and Edelgard's align. He doesn't want to fight either of them, but the fanfare of war trumpets tell him he has no choice. Claude snorts, spinning an arrow in his left hand before sticking it back into its quiver.

“As big class reunions go? This one's gotta be the worst in history.”

Dimitri raises his spear into the air, voice dripping with malice.

“ _Kill every last one of them!_ ”

*

None of this bloodshed makes any sense. Claude yells as he pulls his bowstring back, aiming towards a legion of foot soldiers on the ground beneath him; his battalion lets out a matching cry, and a flurry of arrows descends upon their enemies. He winces as he hears their screams of pain, their howls of anguish. There's no time for sympathy when you're at war. It doesn't change the fact that every soldier who lost their life today died fighting for the squabbles of the wealthy, fights for country and territory that they should never have had to see. All that he can hope for is that victory will be swift, and that he'll be able to not think of the death on his hands for long enough to hold down dinner.

When he'd first stared into the Almyran night sky as a child, dreaming of a world without discrimination or borders, he'd never pictured carnage like this.

The fire that razes through the central hill is starting to course through the entire battlefield, engulfing it in smoke and flames. They'll start to feel the drain of heat exhaustion if they keep at this much longer. Claude wipes sweat off his brow, tugging on the reins of his wyvern, Rassie. “Easy, girl,” he mutters, and she flaps her wings, soaring higher across Gronder Field so Claude can get a better vantage point. The specks of red and blue across the battlefield are mostly stagnant, being pushed back by troops shrouded in white and gold. He heaves a sigh of relief, and he reaches out to scratch the back of Rassie's ear. She snorts, content, before swooping back down, ready to rejoin the battle.

He hears a loud, trumpeting cry, and the scuffle of hooves in the distance. The sea of black and crimson that had been swarming towards Claude lets out one last angry shout before withdrawing, lances and swords raised into the air as though they're threatening to return. The sensation that floods through Claude is less unbridled joy and more reassurance, a knowledge that more of his soldiers will live to see another day. Now they have only the Kingdom to fight. Claude raises a hand, motioning for his legion to charge towards the left side of the battlefield, where Lorenz and Raphael's battalions are stumbling, struggling, engaged in a tussle against what looks like a lone man with a sword--

“You've got to be kidding me,” he mutters. Sword-obsessed, lone wolf, Felix fucking Fraldarius is going to singlehandedly destroy half of Claude's army if he doesn't do something fast. His wyvern begins her descent towards Felix's direction, passing on top of a black-clad man on horseback with fire dancing in his palms.

“Think you can control your ex?” Claude yells at Sylvain, who laughs bitterly but doesn't respond. Instead he dashes forward on his horse, his Dark Knight battalion following the path of Claude's. Claude knows they're both thinking the same thing: Sylvain doesn't have much of a choice. Felix won't be able to escape his snare of incandescent flames. Claude's not sure Felix will emerge from that battle with his life, let alone their friendship.

Felix isn't the core of the Kingdom Army, though, and not who's likely to cause the most damage. Claude's most concerned about Dimitri.

He spots the deposed king grappling with some soldiers a few meters behind Felix's one-man shitshow. Dimitri's fighting like he had that day outside the monastery, unbridled and unrestrained, his lance movements quick and torrential as he stabs an Alliance soldier in the chest. One of his eyes is covered with a patch, but the light that dances behind the other one holds the same vengeance and the same embittered rage. It's mirrored in his actions with how he screams in anger, swinging a javelin across the field to skewer through three men at once, and Claude feels panic start to spread through his veins, a poison freezing him in place before he raises his bow, closes an eye, and _shoots_.

Claude yells no instructions, he screams no commands. There's no order to kill when he watches his arrow pierce through Dimitri's thigh, and when Dimitri shrieks out in pain Claude tries to remain tempered. Instead he slings another arrow through his bowstring, pointing it at Dimitri and shooting it again; he watches as it stabs his opponent through his other leg and he stumbles to the ground. His battalion behind him murmurs, confused, turning to each other in shock. He's got Dimitri where he wants him now. Surely this would be the best way to cripple the Kingdom of Faerghus?

They're right. They're all right and Claude knows it, but he finds himself turning back to face them, shaking his head. His heartbeat speeds up to match the rhythm of the horses galloping through the field.

“I-- I want to negotiate,” he shouts loud and clear, hoping that both the Kingdom and Alliance armies will hear him across the din. He hears Dedue's panicked screaming, and the confusion of Kingdom soldiers as word spreads through the hordes of men: their King is immobilized, their King has fallen, _what do they do_. Claude can feel bile bubbling up at the back of his throat when he plunges down to Dimitri, still shielded by the wingspans of his battalion. The Alliance soldiers part to let him through, and the men of the Kingdom are too shaken to act in retaliation. Their leader is fallen; they're left defeated. They will not fight. There's still some honor in the Kingdom's code and that could be their downfall.

Dimitri lies in front of him, immobilized. He howls in pain as blood pours from both his legs, and Claude feels guilt flow through every fibre of his body, first bubbling in his stomach and spreading through his veins. The last time they'd been on the same battlefield, they'd been allies. Dimitri had saved his life. Now Claude's the reason that Dimitri's blood is spilling from his flesh, the reason he's writhing on the ground, staring up at Claude, one good eye burning with fury. Claude can't keep his gaze on Dimitri without shaking.

 _What happened to you,_ Claude wonders. _Where did I go wrong?_

Deep down, Claude knows the answer lies within him, and how he'd pushed Dimitri away so many years ago. It's irrational to blame himself, but he can't help but think that things might be different if he'd just said something when they were students waltzing before the ball. Mercedes and her battalion have rushed over to tend to Dimitri, and she hovers over him, hands dancing with white and yellow light. She turns around to face Claude, and he's not sure that he's ever seen her eyes look so cold.

“May I ask what you want with us?”

Through the corner of his eye Claude spots Marianne bending over a battered Hilda, chanting the syllables of a Heal spell as Hilda's wounds begin to close. He raises his arm in the air, beckoning for Marianne to come over, and she gallops over on Dorte once she's done tying a tourniquet around her leg. Claude gestures over to Mercedes and Dimitri.

“Please help,” he says, and Marianne dismounts her horse, getting on her knees and clasping her hands together in prayer. Claude raises his hands in front of him, as though to signal _We come in peace_. He tries his best to meet Dimitri's gaze once more, but now he's able to get a better look at Dimitri he can chart out the contours of his face, see how the last five years have caused his cheeks to sink, his gaze grown hollow. His hair is tangled and matted with blood. But in the midst of that vengeful rage is still the same Dimitri he'd kissed in the library so many years ago, and Claude knows he's still in there. He must be.

The sea of Kingdom soldiers parts to reveal a handsome, white-haired man, and Claude can't help but be momentarily distracted by how well Dedue has grown. He squats down next to Mercedes and Marianne, placing a reassuring shoulder on Dimitri's back. Despite everything, Dimitri still has his people, and that comes to Claude as a small twinge of solace. Claude clears his throat to address the small gathering.

“Come back to the monastery with us,” he says. “Dimi-- Your Majesty, please.”

He reaches out his hand, and Dimitri blinks back in shock. He shifts in Mercedes' arms, surrounded by the halo of her and Marianne's light, and a grunt of pain emits from him as his wounds begin to seal. Claude's arm remains outstretched. He's starting to shake, and he can't imagine why.

Finally, Dimitri speaks.

“You... You do not detest me.”

“Goddess, no,” Claude mutters. What sort of mental hoops must he have jumped through to arrive at that conclusion? He swallows the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “We have no quarrel against the Kingdom. It makes no sense for us to fight.”

“Is that... Is that so?” Claude's not sure if he's imagining this, but perhaps he sees the edge of Dimitri's mouth curl up into a small smile. He scrambles onto his elbows, and his lips part as though he's about to say something more. Dedue reaches out to protest, but before he can Dimitri's eye slams shut and he falls back into Mercedes' arms, fading into unconsciousness.

Dedue frowns.

“We will return with you,” he says. His voice is booming, authoritative in a way Claude could have never imagined years ago; it looks like he and Dimitri aren't the only ones who've changed since their halcyon days. “Once His Majesty is recovered, there will be space to negotiate.”

*

The Alliance and Kingdom's injured flood the medical bay at Garreg Mach. Professor Manuela and Marianne's attention is immediately focused on the most battered and wounded, but there are plenty of soldiers with minor scrapes and nicks that require attention too. It's Cyril who has the brilliant idea of turning the old Black Eagles class into a makeshift hospital, and their healthiest soldiers spend an afternoon carrying beds down from their old schoolmates' rooms. Claude can't help but laugh as Dedue crouches down to stop his head from slamming against the archways, and almost drops the other end of the bed on his foot.

“That would have sent _you_ to the hospital,” Dedue remarks, and Claude lets out another ungraceful snort. He'd never realized that Dedue had such a sense of humor.

Claude has to remind himself that the Kingdom Army is here to regroup and recuperate, not to relive their youth, but it's nice to see the hallways flooded with their old friends once more-- Caspar reunited with Ashe, cheering and laughing as they race down the field, in stark contrast with Ingrid and Annette, keeping a cautious distance from each other as they chat in the kitchens. It's difficult not to feel some sort of nostalgia now they're all together, even if they could soon be pried apart.

He checks on Dimitri twice a day, first thing in the morning and then late at night. Dimitri's friends seem to be doing rotating shifts by his bedside; Dedue is there in the morning, and Annette keeps vigil at night. Felix of all people seems to be a semi-permanent fixture once he's discharged from what they've been calling the Black Eagles bay, and he fusses over Dimitri like an overprotective parent, snipping at Mercedes as she changes his bandages. Claude can't help but take note of the new burn scar that caresses Felix's neck, creeping to the base of his jawline. There's probably some joke to be made here about Sylvain leaving marks on his ex, but Claude's not sure there's an appropriate time for it.

Besides, he's got more important questions about the last five years.

Claude's used to pushing people when he needs answers, prodding and pressing at them until what he wants tumbles out. Still, it isn't as though he can march up to Dimitri's unconscious form and shake the truth out of him: Mercedes might beat him to death for mistreating her patient and manhandling her king. If he wants to fill in the gaps he'll have to do so with temperance and tact, neither of which are things he cares for but are qualities that he's had to learn. One sunny morning a week or so after the fight, Claude gets his chance.

Claude smiles at Dedue as he gets up from his seat at Dimitri's bedside, mouthing a quiet “Thank you.” Dedue is seated across him, fingers steepled as though he's chewing on his thoughts, mulling on words he'll never have the gumption to say. In the last week or so Claude feels like he's gotten to know Dedue better than he ever had during their shared time at Garreg Mach. Dedue's a man who's used to holding back-- and Claude wants to give him the space to speak up. He raises a brow.

“Dedue, Dedue. Something on your mind... My _Dedude_?”

Mercedes chuckles at his terrible joke in the background, and the Professor spits out a mouthful of water. Felix screeches, and it takes Claude half a second to realize that they've spluttered their drink all over him. It's what he deserves. Claude laughs, and Dedue's lips quirk gently in a small smile-- yeah, Claude definitely likes this guy.

It'll be a real shame if they end up having to kill each other again. Dedue covers his mouth politely, smile fading from his face before he speaks.

“Nothing that I should trouble you with,” he says. “I have just been giving His Majesty's state some consideration.”

There's his opening. Claude leans in, inquisitive, voice laced with innocence as he asks, “What do you mean?” He taps his fingers against the wall, friendly, casual. “Mercedes and Manuela both say he's recovering just fine. Last I checked he'll be conscious any day now.”

If Dedue senses Claude's intentions, he doesn't show it. He sighs, running his hand through his hair and removing the rubber band that holds his small ponytail together, allowing it to fall in white waves that brush against his collar.

“I... I do not blame Sylvain and Ingrid for joining you,” Dedue says. “Sylvain has always been focused on finding the best way to dismantle a broken system, and Ingrid has a territory to protect. It really did look like the Kingdom was about to fall apart, and that the Alliance would defend us. I bear no grudge against them.”

Claude feels his shoulders relax, and the tension in his back muscles eases a little. “Ah,” he says. “That's... That's good to know.” He knows Sylvain and Dedue had been friends, and that Ingrid and Dedue got along just fine despite a rocky (and frankly terrible) start to their relationship. He'd frequently wondered how their families and friends would have taken their siding with the Alliance, especially when they'd had to face up against each other at Gronder Field; Claude could only hope that they were all just as rational as Dedue. “It's all fair in love and war, huh?”

Felix bristles in the distance, and Mercedes struggles to stifle another laugh. The Professor is too busy dropping paper napkin after paper napkin on Felix's lap to respond to Claude's statement, none of which prove to be useful in soaking up their spilled drink. It's now Dedue's turn to raise an eyebrow.

“One could put it that way,” Dedue says, face betraying no emotion. Ah, yes. Dedue must have known about his and Dimitri's foolish teenage tryst. Looks like Claude hadn't gotten as good at holding his tongue as he'd previously hoped. Luckily, Dedue doesn't press the issue. “His Majesty on the other hand... He has not been well for some time, now. When he discovered they'd left, he refused to see it as anything but a betrayal.”

“What do you mean by that?” Claude asks.

“I...” Dedue's voice trails off, and that's when Claude knows he's not getting any more answers out of him. “I would do best not to reveal too much more. His mental state has been precarious for quite some time now, but I'm certain that you realized that both at the monastery and while we were at battle. All I ask is for your patience and consideration--”

“Preposterous,” Felix snarls. “Dedue is merely masking the truth about _His Majesty_. He's seeing things. He is not fit to--”

Felix is interrupted by a loud, hacking cough, and the sound of rustling sheets. Mercedes whirls around, eyes wide, and Felix immediately rushes to Dimitri's side, grabbing the handles of his bed and leaning forward. Dedue remains seated, calm, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle up in mirth. Claude can see how he sits up taller, stance grows stronger.

Dimitri stirs, once again, in his bedsheets. His good eye flickers open, and he raises a hand to shield it from the blinding sunlight; Mercedes rushes over to draw the curtains in response. Dimitri mutters a soft thanks, and now Felix is barking at him, chastising him for worrying him, for worrying all of them. Dedue glances over to look at Claude, mouthing the words _Let us be for now_.

The knot in his heartstrings tightens, but Claude doesn't have to be told twice. He mouths a silent _Thank you for being there_ before slipping out of the hospital bay. Hilda's waiting outside for him, toying with a lock of her hair. She leans over and gives Claude's hand a little squeeze.

“How's he doing, Mr. Leader Man?”

For the first time in years, Claude can confidently say, “I think he'll be fine.”

*

Claude doesn't return to the infirmary the next day, or the next. Much as he'd like to surprise Dimitri by his bedside, spoon-feed him Gautier Cheese Gratin and then bombard him with question after question about the last five years, he knows it's important for Dimitri to be with _his people_ right now. He deserves to be around faces he trusts: the friends who he went to school with, and who'd fought with him on Gronder, side-by-side. Claude lost all right to be that for Dimitri the day he'd kissed him so many years ago, showing him a sliver of vulnerability before cruelly shoving him away. Having Dimitri at the monastery has caused Claude to linger on that night-- he can't step into the library without thinking about strong arms pressing him against the table, and the smell of Dimitri's breath on his skin. Claude sighs and slams his book shut.

He popped in here to do some research on the church, but perhaps he could do with a late-night walk instead. The fumes from ancient tomes are starting to muddle with his head. Claude runs down the staircase two at a time, taking in deep breaths of the fresh night air.

The stables of Garreg Mach are usually silent at this hour. Maybe Rassie'll be down for some treats and headpets if she's still awake, though his wyvern does tend to keep a better sleep schedule than he does. Claude creeps through the great hall and takes a sharp left, headed towards the scent of horse breath and fresh hay. He catches sight of a familiar blonde figure and pauses in his tracks.

Dimitri leans across the stable fence, gently chatting with a grey stallion and scratching behind its ears. There's a small, cheerful smile on his face-- it isn't the mild-mannered expression that he wore during his academy days, nor the maniacal grin that spread across his lips when they'd defended Garreg Mach, but it suits him. Now it isn't streaked with blood Claude can see that his longer hair suits him too, especially when it's pulled back into a ponytail, showing off the contours of his cheekbones. When he reaches up to pet the horse's head his gaze is calm, almost serene, and it's then when Claude realizes that he's never actually seen Dimitri this happy before.

Claude watches transfixed for a minute, maybe two. He leans against the stable door, wondering how long it'll take for Dimitri to notice his presence, or if he'll have to announce himself. Claude knows that he's always been a little more on edge than most, but how has Dimitri not whirled around in panic, startled as a baby fawn? Claude's unfortunately had to develop that instinct as the Prince of Almyra, but then again, not every ruler has had to endure assassination attempt after assassination attempt since he was three or four.

There had only been the one for Dimitri, and after that everyone had presumed him dead. Claude stands up straight, clearing his throat.

“You're looking well.”

Dimitri whips around, and the color drains from his face. He glances around the room, presumably searching for a weapon of some sort-- another reminder to Claude that it's probably not normal to carry a knife on you wherever you go, even in the peace of the monastery. Claude puts both his hands behind his head, trained and casual.

“Easy now. I just came to check on Rassie. Turns out she's sleeping,” he says, nodding at his wyvern curled up in a pile of hay, “But I ended up watching you. Didn't know you liked horses. You weren't riding one in battle, were you?”

“I... Uh,” Dimitri mutters, blinking back in surprise. “He's Dedue's. When they get too loud,” Claude decides it's probably best not to ask who _they_ are, “Sometimes I find him down here and talk to him... He calms me.”

“Yeah, I get it. Animals aren't like people, y'know? No matter what you do or what you say, they'll always have your back.” Rassie had been Claude's only companion when he was an isolated, lonely child in Almyra; she was still too small to ride when he was at Garreg Mach, but he'd trained her well over the last five years. He glances over at her rising and falling back and smiles. “Does Dedue's horse have a name?”

“Ah, it's... It's embarrassing,” Dimitri says. “I- I was the one who named him years ago, so it's not really a name befitting of a fine steed such as him.”

“Rassie's short for Rasgulla,” The words fall from Claude's mouth before he can stop them, and he wishes desperately that he could take them back. _You didn't need to volunteer that_ , and it's frightening to know that Dimitri's sheer presence has remained this disarming. “It's, uh, it's a foreign sweet. I tell folks that it's short for Raspberry sometimes if I don't feel like explaining myself. Can't get any sillier than that--”

“Horsey,” Dimitri sputters, “His name is Horsey.”

Now it's Claude's turn to gape in shock. Dimitri can't be serious, can he? Yet Dimitri's lips betray no signs of mirth, and his storm-blue gaze is as earnest as ever. He wouldn't know a good joke even if it sprung up in front of him and started doing pirouettes. Claude blinks back at him, and for once Khalid “Claude” von Riegan, master tactician and smooth talker, is completely at a loss for words. Finally, he's able to muster up the appropriate sentiment for this situation.

“No fucking way.”

Dimitri nods back, timid. Horsey snorts, as though in agreement, and Claude can't help but do the same-- his cheek muscles hurt with how hard he's trying to stifle his grin. He bites the inside of his mouth, but his reflexes want to laugh so much that he's actively fighting them; after a few seconds Claude gives in, breaking into a wide smile, and then a giggle spills from his lips. At this point, the bursting sensation in his stomach is too much to bear. Claude begins to cackle, leaning back against a pillar in the stables to support him, and soon he's heaving with laughter. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Goddess,” Claude wheezes between laughs, “I'm sorry, I just--” Just what, really? What is he supposed to say, he hadn't expected this from a man who'd been shouting about having his head a week ago? That Horsey is a pretty dumb name? Dimitri stares back at him for a second, as though he's trying to figure out what to make of this, and finally, he laughs too, his voice a booming, melodic bass that Claude swears rumbles the wooden rafters of the place. Soon, they're both doubled over, practically howling, Dimitri clutching his stomach and shaking his head. It's Dimitri who first manages to speak.

“It... It's a name I bequeathed him from my Academy days,” he heaves, “Dedue asked me for suggestions, this was the best I could come up with, and I suspect he kept it to tease me.”

“Hate to say it,” Claude says, standing up straight. He gasps for breath, taking in gulps of the stench of ammonia. “I think you're right. Horses are pretty dumb... I bet he doesn't know his name. Dedue could change it at any time and he wouldn't care.”

Horsey turns around to stare directly at Claude, as though he was listening. Claude's eyes shoot wide open. Dimitri snickers.

“Would you like to say that again?”

“Okay, okay,” Claude says, taking a step back. “Sorry, Horsey. Won't happen again.”

Horsey is still staring directly at Claude, brown eyes wide and unfeeling. Claude sighs dramatically. Looks like he's past the point of forgiveness now.

“Welp, I messed up. Soon Horsey will be be kicking the shit out of me on the battlefield and I'll deserve it. He hates me--”

“D- do _you_ not hate me, Claude?”

Dimitri covers his mouth as soon as the words leave it. For a split second, he looks just like he had when Claude rejected him so many years ago: face pale, brows raised, stumbling in shock. He exists in such stark contrast with the king who stormed an army against Claude's one week ago, consumed with bitterness and vengeance, but they are inherently the same person, entwined. Claude sighs, and he wishes he wouldn't. There it is, the familiar feeling of his stomach tying in knots, and bile springing to the back of his throat.

“For all that happened years ago, I'd think that you'd be the one who deserves to hold a grudge. I never did apologize for all that, did I? Sorry,” he says. His heart is thumping against his ribcage. “I really am.”

“You... You could have killed me on the spot,” Dimitri says, his voice a growling rasp, “And you didn't. Why not?”

“I...” Claude's voice trails off. Dimitri might seem more lucid now than he had before, but Claude imagines his mental state must still be fragile; it can't just change at the flip of a switch. Claude may have spared his life, but if Dimitri's smart his suspicions will linger. He thinks of charming his way out, turning his action into some sort of twisted Machiavellian gambit, but sincerity is best when it's wielded as a weapon. So Claude tells him the truth.

“I have no quarrel with the Kingdom. I'm not sure... I'm not sure what happened to you, Your Majesty. But you aren't a bad person, and I'm glad you're alive. We'll be stronger if we push back against the Empire together. Your position in the Kingdom is precarious, and I'll have negotiating power with your court if I help bring it back. That and,” he hesitates for a moment before figuring, screw it, he may as well, “You were something to me once. Will you lend me your strength?”

This is hardly how Claude imagined this conversation would go: conducted by their lonesome at an ungodly hour of the night, surrounded by the stench of hay and horse manure. But there's something to be said about catching Dimitri when he's most vulnerable, and Claude would be lying if he said he wasn't laying his cards on the table as well. Flip them over and one might see his King of Hearts. Dimitri knots his brow and Claude can practically see him weighing his words, measuring the best thing to say while he's running on a lack of sleep and a post-recovery haze. Finally, Dimitri speaks.

“When you reached out to me on the battlefield... For a moment, the voices stopped.”

Now they're getting somewhere. Claude leans in, curious. “What voices?”

“I have always been a bitter and broken man, Claude,” Dimitri says, voice hitching in his throat. “You must have known by now what happened at Duscur... Where Dedue and I lost our families, our companions, our friends. I hear their voices daily, shrieking at me to seek revenge. Their specters loom ominously when I sleep, refusing me rest. My father... Felix's brother, Glenn. Dedue's sister, Ines, who I never knew, but she is furious, telling me she will never be at peace. The children of Duscur, crying at me to fix this, fix this...”

Claude feels like he's been punched in the gut. He's always known in theory that there was no way Dimitri and Dedue could have escaped Duscur untraumatized, but to hear this straight from Dimitri's mouth is especially chilling. He shifts from side to side, wincing.

“That sounds awful.” What else is there to say? He swallows the lump in his throat. “I... I don't really have the words. I can't imagine how terrible it must have been to go through all that.”

Dimitri's voice is winded, short. “For years I thought Dedue died when he helped me escape from Fhirdiad. It has only been recently that I learned it was not the case. When I thought he was dead I would see Dedue too, cold and harsh. But he is alive. He ran to my aid when you shot me at Gronder. The ghosts still shriek at me, but they have been quieter since Dedue returned... And even more so since you showed me I was a man worth saving. Claude,” Dimitri says and reaches out, breath short, tone pleading, “Tell me. Do you think they are real?”

Claude feels like someone's cast Fimbulvetr in his chest, and the ice is spreading through his ribcage, freezing through his lungs. “I... I can't answer that for you.” It's the best he can muster given what Dimitri has loaded onto him. The longer Dimitri speaks the more unjust it seems that he was thrust into leadership; being born into their stations might have been Dimitri's curse where it was Claude's privilege. Not that being a a walking target because he was mixed was particularly advantageous, but the part where Claude's the heir to two nations has been pretty instrumental in his quest to secure his goals. Claude bites the inside of his mouth, watching as Dimitri runs a hand through his hair. Dimitri hangs his head, drawing circles in the dirt floor with his foot.

“That was terribly unfair of me to ask that of you. I apologize. In any case... Revenge, sovereignty... I know not what your motives are, Claude, but it makes sense for us to unite our causes for now. I am sure Felix and Dedue would feel the same. I accept your proposal to cooperate.”

A smile spreads across Claude's lips, and the cold in his veins dissipates. “Well, that's settled,” he says, offering his hand to Dimitri; his counterpart takes it in a crushing handshake. Claude's shocked that his fingers don't break in Dimitri's grip. “Feel free to use your old rooms here at the monastery, by the way. If we're going to be working together, we may as well operate from the same base.”

“That would be nice,” Dimitri says, nodding. “Perhaps the familiar sights might bring some comfort... There are many places for me in the monastery that conjure feelings of nostalgia.” Claude can't believe he's kissed a man who sounds like he's speaking from a thesaurus, and that under different circumstances, he might have kissed him senseless again. Diplomacy leaves no room for fleeting matters of the heart, so Claude just smiles, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in his chest.

“Any favorite haunts? Secret spots you're fond of?”

Now it Dimitri's turn to smile back.

“I could show you, if you'd like. The voices... They will not be silenced for long, and I would like to repay your kindness when I am still able to. Will you come with me?”

Claude stares into the horizon, taking note of the gradually brightening color of the sky. The first hints of light are showing, and he can feel dawn's edge like knifepoint brushing past his throat, but he figures he's already invited a rival nation's king into his domain. Staying up far too late is a risk he can afford to run. He turns back towards Dimitri with a wicked grin, and Dimitri gives Horsey one last pet on the head before saying, “Let's go.”

Claude can feel the stallion's eyes boring through him as he and Dimitri stroll through the stables' exit. By all means this should be irrational: Claude's a leader now, he's carrying a nation's weight on his back, his people need him to rest. Then again, Claude has never fully grasped the meaning of that word, and he picks up his pace when Dimitri sprints through the courtyard, feeling the dewdrops on grass flicker against his ankles. Dimitri takes a sharp left in the marketplace and scales a stone wall, and Claude follows suit, landing on a wide patch of overgrown grass. A sea of canopy trees looms on ahead, and Dimitri weaves between them, pausing briefly so Claude doesn't lose him.

They must look so ridiculous, two fully-grown men running through a forest like a pair of stupid kids, with no visible path or knowledge of his final destination. Yet in the moment Claude can't bring himself to care. So much of his personality has been a careful, circumstance-shaped construct that it's nice to shed it all for a second and just run, _run_. In the distance Claude hears the hum of running water, and Dimitri turns around to face him.

“We're almost there,” he says, slowing his footsteps as they approach a small brook. The river cascades across several large rocks, forming a mini-waterfall that ripples through the woods. Dimitri digs a foot into the soil, and a small, content smile spreads across his face.

“It's comforting to be here... The sound of the water is louder than my thoughts. I used to come here with Dedue, Ashe and Annette when we got stressed from schoolwork. We'd skip rocks across the river and see whose flew the farthest. Glenn likes it here too-- ah, Felix's brother. His... His ghost,” Dimitri murmurs, staring at his feet, flushing. Claude nods.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath, trying to ignore the tendrils of dread creeping up upon him. Light begins to poke through the leaves of the canopy, casting shadows on Dimitri's face; Claude might find it quite charming if he hadn't just realized how secluded they are. Dimitri could call an army at any moment, summon a flood of his legions of men, and Claude would be taken by surprise, decimated on the spot. His heart races so quickly he can hear it thumping in his skull, and Claude's hand instinctively flies to his knife. Dimitri's gaze flickers towards it. His face falls, his lips curling slightly downwards, and his shoulders seem to droop.

“Ah... I apologize if I put you at unease. I know we're secluded here, but I would never willingly hurt you, not when I'm of sound mind. It... Hasn't been this quiet in here for a very long time. You have faith in me, even when I'm at my worst. I think that might have helped silence them. I would never let you come to harm.”

Claude swallows the lump in his throat. Dimitri's voice is pleading, sincere, and every fibre of his being wants to lend Dimitri his trust. _He's a man of the Kingdom_ , Claude think to himself, _His honor would never let him._ Yet would it be such a crime for Claude to base his trust on their friendship over a country's creed, for him to place his faith in Dimitri's conviction, the goodness of his heart?

He's never been one for hedging his bets, but slowly, Claude loosens the grip on his blade, allowing his hand to fall to his side. Dimitri reaches out for him, and Claude allows their pinky fingers to entwine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was timed for [FE Ramadan](https://twitter.com/FireEmbRamadan/status/1254496043405803522), which you should definitely check out and participate in. thanks dima for beta-reading, and bushra for organizing this event. 
> 
> i think a monthly update cadence seems realistic given my irl commitments/other fic-writing deadlines? do find me on twitter [@gautired](https://twitter.com/gautired/) and yell at me to keep writing because i'm terrible at keeping focused on one thing. also feel free to [retweet](https://twitter.com/gautired/status/1264282528900247552?s=20) this chapter if you liked it!


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